Musings

The finely pointed, hollow tip was immersed into a small bottle, filled to the neck with black ink. Removing the quill from the inkwell, Remus J. Lupin put the goose-feather quill to parchment, writing in a slightly scraggly print as he penned his observations down for his mind to sort out (unlike Dumbledore, he did not have the benefit of a pensieve every time there was some stray thought to be organized) stray, harried thoughts. With attacks on Muggles becoming more frequent, and the Order helpless to do everything in their power in order to keep from jeopardizing the ability to continue saving others, the few weeks that had passed since the Hogwarts term had let had been nothing short of chaos around Grimmauld Place. Sighing heavily, and quill full of ink forgotten, Remus rubbed his temples in a smooth circular motion, banishing the headache that attempted to plague him—it wouldn't do to have unclear thoughts, just now. He had to get it all down on paper so things would stop buzzing around in his head unnecessarily. And so he resumed his writing after a fresh dip of the quill into ink.

'I worry about Harry. Ever since his return to this place, something has changed. Of course, it was hardly a surprise when he came back sullen – he'd just lost the closest thing to a father he'd ever had – but nonetheless, it is painful to watch someone who ought to be enjoying some of the best years of his life sit silent and brooding, face pale. He's skinnier than before, if that's even possible, and his hair messier than ever. Merlin, he looks so much like James at times it's hard to look at him at all. And then those eyes…green (Lily's eyes) behind dirty glasses. They're dead, almost—he's become a listless sort of shell, no matter what we try. Not that we haven't—myself, the Order, the Weasleys, Ron and Ginny especially, but to no avail. Something's bothering him, and probably something much heavier than Sirius' death. Which is saying something—even Molly misses him, in spite of how often they disagreed. Would you believe it? She's been nice to Dung ever since! Dumbledore doesn't say much on the matter, except that Harry will come around on his own—I don't think I've ever heard him speak that way about Harry before, and so sadly. No, something is the matter that's much deeper than anything that Harry or Dumbledore will say. Perhaps when the Weasleys get to stay here full time once more, and when Hermione comes, Harry will be willing to open up to his friends. He speaks to me, but no longer confides—I just hope he's not afraid that he'll lose me too. This entire mess shall have to be—

A pause in the scratching--Remus had stopped writing. Creaking footsteps of someone descending the stairs reached his ears, and with a shake of the head, Remus muttered, "Incendio," and tossed the ashes of the parchment into the fireplace. Brushing his hands off and putting away the old quill, he turned to face a young man of nearly sixteen, who had stopped in the doorway, a questioning look on his face made plain by sad green eyes that peered at him through glasses that had been broken far too many times.

He'd have to remember to get Harry new ones, Lupin decided for a split second as he remained at an impasse with the Boy-Who-Lived. He was far too skinny, and pale. The clothes he wore (cast-offs of his cousin's) only accentuated this by their bagginess, and the trainers on his feet were worn, and the soles (as always) were peeling. A regular waif and old beyond his years—it took all of Lupin's resolve and discipline to simply give a small half-smile and ask,

"All right, Harry?"

"Yeah."

It was a lie—Lupin knew that without even having to think about. Harry was far from all right, and had not been 'all right' since a young age. More likely, the boy had never been all right. It simply wasn't fair, Lupin mused, that someone as decent as Harry had yet to have a painless year of his life since that fateful Halloween nearly fifteen years ago. But Lupin didn't bother with pointing this out to anyone, let alone Harry. Merlin knew he had enough to deal with! And so, Lupin informed him of the only good news that the werewolf could think of,

"I expect the Weasleys will be staying here instead of the Burrow the rest of the summer. They should be arriving soon. Hermione as well."

Harry's features brightened immediately. Well, they brightened about as much as his expressions ever became happy these days—a hint of happiness in the eyes, and something that might have been a smile begging to tug as the muscles in his face. Less prominently, and much more subtly than any allowance of happiness, was something that looked oddly enough like guilt. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Harry was still blaming himself for the incident at the Ministry of Magic. Dumbledore had been right, to an extent—some things take time to heal, and this was one of them. Lupin could only hope that Harry would be given that time, and that his friends really would be of such a good aide as to help him move through his grief…and whatever it was that bore down upon him so heavily as to even overshadow that.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment longer, before Harry dashed back up the stairs, probably to confirm that Lupin had been telling him the truth. Sighing, the man watched his best friend's son disappear before sitting down at the desk again, this time to write about Order business.

---

Author's Note: Wow. It's been a long time since I've gotten the opportunity to write an author's note, or post a bit of writing. This story is a character exercise I composed just a few weeks prior to Half Blood Prince's release. Obviously, there won't be any spoilers for that or Deathy Hallows. The idea was to try and get into the heads of some of Harry's closest friends--Lupin, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione.

Reviews are wonderful, and enough of them can motivate me to add other the three chapters.

Oh yes, and I obviously don't own Harry Potter. Ergo, this story is on a fanfiction site.